City Mouse, Country Bull - A Tom Hiddleston One Shot
by sherekahnsgirl
Summary: No real plot at all. Just pure, unadulterated smut. No plot at all. Mildly Dominant Tom, Mild D/s, Oral Sex, Mention of spanking, Country!Tom, Sex, Fluff, Erotica, Smut


A/N: 18+

I think this is my first "reader" POV story, so please forgive any of the inevitable grammatical errors resulting from that.

Just something I rattled off this morning and prolly didn't edit nearly enough. Sorry.

Inspired by the pic of Tom in the "Save the Arctic" T-shirt and the debate people seem to be having about whether or not Tom looks as good as he should in it.

When has there ever been a bad pic of Tom Hiddleston, people?! Really.

Partly Wheatland inspired, sorta, kinda, Country/Redneck/Cowboy!Tom.

There seems to be a certain amount of debate about how Tom looks in this photo, although I can't for the life of me fathom why.

To me, he looks like a virile, rangy man who wouldn't ask or apologize as he stares you straight in the eye and lifts you onto the tailgate of his ancient truck - not worrying about the fact that he's getting your pretty, flirty little dress dirty because, in a minute or so, he's going to get you much dirtier himself - knowing from experience that the height of the gate when it was down was just about fuckin' perfect for fucking.

He'd lay you back surprisingly gently, reaching forward into the bed to pull a - thankfully clean - horse blanket down to cushion your head. He doesn't want you feeling anything but so amazingly good you think you're going to die in his arms.

The slight lift that the blanket gives you allows you to look down to where he's removing your strappy, sexy if impractical high heeled shoes and tossing them blithely over his shoulder as he bends each leg so that only your heels catch on the very edge of the gate, not allowing you enough purchase that you could leverage yourself away from him as he deliberately catches your eye while settling those big hands around ankles that he's already left well-spread.

Somehow, you can't quite convince yourself to look away as you gaze down between your legs and see all six-two of him standing there, feel those hands - roughened from years of handling cattle and horses and ropes and leather - the last two thoughts making your breath catch in your throat - as callused fingertips drift slowly up the outsides of your calves, leaving gooseflesh in their wake.

By the time he reaches your knees, you're already panting and he's barely touched you. When those somewhat sandpapery digits slip beneath your bottom - the one that's still a bit sore from the spanking he gave you - a tenderfoot - for trying to ride his none too well broke stallion this afternoon and nearly ending up dead on both counts for your trouble - to grip those still faintly throbbing cheeks possessively, you can't suppress a moan and then a startled gasp as he uses that intimate grip to pull you fully against him, the tiny, lacy scrap of your panties offering literally nothing in the way of protection from the imposing insistence of his unyielding Levi's-clad bulge.

Because you had gone out for dinner, he had dressed for you - well, as dressed as a man like him got. He wasn't wearing a several thousand dollar designer suit like most of the guys you dated, and he probably never would. Nor was he in the butter-soft, holey, worn jeans he'd had on today that had molded like cling film to every muscle and bulge he owned as you'd gazed admiringly at them, your tongue lolling out from between your lips until the tip hit the dirt more times than you'd like to think about.

Instead, he was in a clean, red plaid shirt with what looks - and now feels - like stiff new jeans, which you guessed was a compliment a the time - that they were both new and clean.

Those impossibly strong hands make short work of the tiny strings that wrap around your hips to hold your panties on - you can feel them give way as he rends both sides at the same time then tugs the material from beneath you until your entire lower body is laid bare and vulnerable before him.

And he was taking every advantage of that, his eyes roaming hungrily over every bit of you in such a raw, covetous manner that they might as well have been an extra pair of hands - you could feel them on you as surely as you could feel those big hands meet on your lower belly beneath your pretty, swirly cotton dress as if they had every right to be there - as if they'd been there before and fully intended to be there again in the near future.

His hands were so big that he could span the distance between the tops of your hip bones and the beginning swells of your breasts, covering your ribcage entirely and making you feel just that much more delicate, somehow, just that much smaller and more exposed and defenseless against him.

All of those thoughts that were so powerful to you converge in the same spot that was probably dampening - hell, _soaking_ \- that jeans covered crotch of his that was - even more so as he leaned forward - being eagerly pressed against you. You could feel him moving his hips side to side just slightly, just enough to force those already swollen lips to part to accommodate him, until he's so tight up against you that you can practically feel him throbbing against the part of you that wants him there the most. You know that, if it weren't for the strength of the material holding him back, he'd be in you to the motherfucking _hilt_ , till his balls hit your bottom and you could practically feel him in the back of your throat.

You're so absorbed in that image that you almost miss the way his hands trail boldly up to claim that which he obviously considers to be his, your dress pooling at his wrists, the flowery, feminine material contrasting boldly against the muscles of his tanned, veiny forearms.

When his palms cover your nipples - his hands so blasted huge they can claim every bit of your healthy endowments at once without even trying - you couldn't suppress a ragged moan as you arch your neck, your head rolling on the pseudo pillow he'd found for you, and when you finally find the nerve to look up at him, a triumphant, if hungry, grin slashes across his face that you suddenly feel the need to wipe off in the worst way.

Your hands move to his wrists and begin to tug at them. You are horrified to discover that, even using every bit of your strength, you can't even begin to dislodge his hands from your body.

And that grin had only grown wider, into a full blown egotistical smile, the bastard, while he watches your futile efforts and continues to fondle you, dissolving away a lot of your anger as he plucks at then pinches your nipples experimentally.

"Something I can help you with, little lady?" he asks mock-seriously, holding an already swollen, aching nipple tightly between each thumb and middle finger to lazily rasp just the rough tip of his index fingers over the very sensitive peaks.

Just a few seconds ago, you had your arguments all lined up about how you found him high handed . . . dominant . . . and ego -

 _H-holy fuck, that feels good_!

There was no way you had the breath to dress him down - suddenly you couldn't find a lungful of air if your life depended on it, especially as he forces you - _forces you_? - to watch him while he bends his head - excruciatingly slowly, the fucker - to engulf one of those badly teased nipples in his mouth.

 _Son of a bitch_! You wanted to scream, to arch yourself against him, to beg him to do anything at all that he wanted to do to you. All he was doing was suckling at a nipple - and pinching and flicking the other at the same time, of course - and you were near to passing out already! How were you going to even live through having this cowboy actually _fuck_ you?!

Somehow, you managed not to debase yourself quite that badly, although he is obviously tickled by the way you're moaning pretty constantly.

Even when you clamp your mouth shut.

Suddenly, all of that lovely stimulation is withdrawn, and you can't prevent your snarl of displeasure as you jackknife yourself bolt upright, as if you're going to grab him and drag him back down to you.

He stills your grabby hands with depressing - and what might have been frightening with anyone else - ease, guiding them up above your head rather than around his waist, reaching down to tug your dress over your head, leaving you wonderfully naked before him, your hair a riot of curls around your face that spilled down onto your shoulders and beyond, partially obscuring your breasts.

But not for long.

Upon seeing you like that, he issues a groan that turns into a growl, a feral, mindless answer to the one you'd emitted only a few seconds ago, and he catches your face between his palms to kiss you in a manner that brings you perilously close to your end.

Just a fucking _kiss_ , mind you.

This man was downright dangerous, and that thought only made you hotter.

He ends the kiss by laying you back again, tsking and giving you a scolding look when you try to resist his will. "Look at me," he commands softly, and you obey him immediately, seeing him tip his Stetson back a bit with his index finger in preparation for something you're not so sure you're going to live through.

Something you're not at all sure you _care_ at this moment whether you live through or not.

Without breaking eye contact with you, Tom brings your hands to your sides, lacing his fingers with yours, then, your eyes still locked together, you watch him bend down between your legs, lifting a small foot over each broad shoulder after having kissed the sole tenderly, and leaning forward with an unsuppressed groan of pure appreciation as he nuzzles his entire face into the very heart of your femininity.

He's a bit stubbly, and that causes you to try to jerk away from him a bit, but he clamps both of your hands against your hips and suddenly you aren't going anywhere. You can hear him taking deep breaths of you, savoring your scent, as he drags himself against every bit of you, touching all of you, his lips and tongue and the bold point of his nose joyfully investigating the totality of you - the creases of your thighs, the very top of your outer lips, down to nip playfully at your bottom - and his moans and his breathing only increase in volume and frequency as he does so.

And so do yours.

When his tongue slips boldly into you, you try to arch your hips, but he refuses to allow it, holding you still for his wet, determined assault, flicking your entrance, then flicking its way inside you, fucking you, licking you -

 _Devouring_ you.

He hums in obvious enjoyment as he sucks at your lips, catching each one between his own and licking lavishly before skirting up the inside perimeter of your labia, until he's hit the top again, then slowly - terribly, torturously slowly - he slides his open, wet mouth onto your clit and begins to drag his flat tongue over it, encompassing so much more of you with each lick than just your clit.

But he wasn't content with just that, so he moves down enough to scoop the tip inside of you before drawing his tongue up and over you, licking every inch of you, top to bottom, then drifting slowly down - distributing kisses here and there - until he begins the torture again seconds later.

Within a few short minutes, you're writhing and arching - or rather trying to - moaning and keening, desperately wanting to bury your hands in all of that glorious hair, but your hands remain firmly trapped, although he's changed his hold so that his fingers now encircle your wrists, leaving your hands somewhat free to move restlessly, grabbing at his hands occasionally, sometimes wholly unable to stop yourself from digging your nails against the unforgiving truck bed beneath you, moving within the bonds he has placed on you but knowing it is not within your power to get him to release you.

"Tom! Mmmmmm . . . pleeeaaaasssssee!"

But his only answer is to chuckle against you evilly.

You find that you're not above begging. Anything to get him to start concentrating on your clit rather than merely including it in the path his lips and tongue are taking.

"Please, please, please, Toooooooooom!"

The bastard is actually laughing at you, chuckling as he raises his head a bit to kiss the insides of your thighs. "You bellowed?"

"Fuck you, Hiddleston! My clit is just about to explode and you're ignoring it!"

It was a mistake to get him to talk to you, though - almost as much of one as allowing him to have you like this - out in the open, in the bed of his truck. His voice was deep and chocolaty, with just the slightest hint of a redneck twang.

"Well, Ma'am, I don't know how they do these things in the big city, but I do know that, out here, we tend to like to take these things slow. But far be it for me to tell a lady no . . . "

Suddenly, you find your wrist released, and before you can do anything about it, two big fingers sink into you with devastating determination, filling you not quite as full as you would like, but when they begin to move and he dips his head down to latch his mouth onto the bud that has been tortured all this while, the tip of his tongue mercilessly flicking the exposed crest of your clit as he slams his fingers up inside you, his efforts drawing a involuntary whimper from the back of your throat with each powerful thrust.

Your free hand immediately finds its way into his hair and you think you heard him sigh contentedly as it did.

It wasn't supposed to happen quite this quickly, but you can already feel the tickle at the back of your spine and your neck, can feel your muscles tightening around him, legs dangling helplessly over those shoulders, and not least of all you can feel those azure eyes watching you avidly, missing absolutely nothing about your helpless response to him.

When he crooks his fingers within you, deliberately attacking that specific spot, a shudder runs through your body, making your toes curl and your hair stand on end. It's all over but the screaming, which you can feel has him smiling around you but not neglecting you in the least as he does so. He doesn't try to shhh you, either, knowing there's no one around to hear you, which was why he'd chosen this place, you'd guess.

You are lost completely to the demands he makes of you with his fingers and his lips and his mouth, coaxing not just one, but four major, coma inducing climaxes from you before the hand in his hair begins to pull on it rather than luxuriate in it.

Unable to breath or think or do anything but feel the spasms that still rock your body, you feel him withdraw reluctantly from you, and as you close then throw an arm over your eyes, trying to gather the shattered remains of your mind and your self around you but failing badly, you hear the unmistakable clink of a belt and then the rasp of a zipper being lowered before you hear his soft drawl.

"Don't fall asleep on me now, darlin'."

As if you could. You didn't think your body was ever going to allow you to sleep again after that.

As if you could sleep through even just feeling the presence of the barest tip of his cock against where his fingers had just been, and supposedly stretched you.

But apparently nowhere near enough.

"Mother of all that is holy - is that -" was all you're able to get out before he sinks into you, splitting you wide open.

" - yooooouuuuuuuuu?!" you wail as he takes you, right down to the bone, balls dangling against you, his tip nudging your cervix insistently.

And then he reaches down and loops your knees over his elbows and leans even further forward - and there he was at the back of your throat as you'd expected.

When he began to retreat, every sensitive inch of him scrapes slowly against every ultra sensitive inch of you, and your body is still trying to recover from what he'd done to you before. You clamp yourself around him from a combination of a desperate need to come to some sort of détente with being so unutterably possessed and the remnants of the orgasms he's already given you.

And every bit of all of what was happening to you is hurtling you towards many, many more of them, even as you find the surprisingly pleasant side of the distinctly painful feeling of being forced to stretch violently around him as he fills you - starting an uncompromisingly, unrelentingly rhythm that you can either go with or fight against.

And you know it's a fight you he will never let you win.

So you give over more completely than you ever have in your life, to any man. Why you feel comfortable enough with him to do so, you'll never know, and you're not much interested in examining the impulse at the moment.

You just . . . let go. You _let_ him.

You _let_ him _have_ you.

As soon as you do, as soon as you relax beneath him, there's no edge of discomfort anywhere in your body, and what had been there is easily converted into pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He can feel it, can feel your surrender - you know because he pauses for a split second and looks at you, his chin lowering, eyes widening, looking for all he was worth like a wild animal who recognizes his mate.

Then he does something you don't expect and climbs onto the end of the truck and you feel it dip from his considerable weight, gathering you further back away from the end of the gate to lay over you in a way he couldn't while standing, moving your legs over his shoulders, capturing your hands above your head in one of his then reaching between you to position himself for one tremendous thrust that seats him _there_ , within you again. He leaves his hand right near where it is, though, to seek and find your clit again, worrying it as he spreads his long, lean body out over you, dwarfing you in a way that enhances your feelings of vulnerability and makes you clench once, tightly, around him.

Your eyes remain on his as he fucks you - you're held still for every one of his powerful thrusts by dint of your position beneath him, your legs useless, arms useless, barely able to move at all beneath his weight.

And every bit of it fucks your mind at least as thoroughly as he's fucking your body.

Only a minute or so after you find yourself in this position, you lose complete control again - your orgasm barreling through your body like a steamroller as he flicks your little bean mercilessly throughout it while he's taking you harder and faster and more completely overwhelmingly than any man ever has. You can't even raise your hips to him, you can't buck or writhe beneath him, you can't move away from what he's doing to you or stop him in any way.

You've never felt more truly submissive in your life.

Or more satisfied as - as he rips the last devastating orgasm from your unresisting body, he tenses above you, throwing his head back, groaning and growling animalistically as he drives himself into you.

His head finally hits your shoulder as he's still panting and growling, still rocking into you, as if he refuses to let it end. In truth, he recedes more slowly away from you than any other man you've been with, not that you mind.

Before he's half way out of you, you would swear that you could feel him beginning to swell within you again.

"Son of a bitch, you can't possibly -"

He has the grace to blush as he looks down at you, but he's smiling as he does it. "Well, not usually, but there's something about you, city mouse, that gets my motor running."

You know you're grinning up at him like an idiot, but who couldn't return that gorgeous smile? And that nickname he'd given you - it wasn't what you would have chosen, but you guessed it was kind of cute. "Well, yank the distributor cap off that puppy and hide it for the moment. I'm bushed."

His hand was right where he left it, on your privates, to which he gave a gentle squeeze. "No, you're not. You're bare."

If you were any more tired your eyes would have rolled out of your head. "Very, very bad, country mouse."

Tom fixes a look on you that says he's questioning your sanity. "Do I fuck like a mouse?"

Glaring up at him, you answer, "No, I was just going with the idiom, but if you'd prefer - city mouth, country -"

That cracks him up. "Yes, that's highly appropriate for you - you're definitely mouthy."

Raising your arm to smack him, you find you don't have the strength, so you go for the burn instead. "Bite me. Okay, so 'city mouse, country bull' it is, because, you know, you're obviously so full of it - "

His hands grab your hips and hold you still for him to sink into you on a disbelieving moan. He's impressively erect again. "No, but you're going to be full of me while you're here, I gar-un-tee it."


End file.
